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Ad: By: Arnold BustilloDave hated cockroaches. He lived in an apartment infested with them, and they were as much a part of his life as the paint on the walls, faded and peeling as it was. He moved into the apartment because it was cheap, and he stayed there because he was usually broke. Make no mistake, Dave knew exactly what he was getting into. He knew there would be cockroaches. When you want to live cheap in the big city, you put up with things you normally wouldn’t put up with. So Dave put up with the cockroaches - at first. He did the normal anti-bug routine that people in the city know all too well. He set up roach motels in the darkest corners of his apartment and was obsessive about removing table scraps from the apartment as quickly as possible - but nothing seemed to help. No matter how many roach motels he tossed and no matter how often he emptied the household garbage, nothing seemed to curb the near constant encounters with those tiny disgusting fuckers. He killed at least one cockroach on the walk to the pisser every morning; and if he wanted a glass of water in the middle of the night? Jesus Christ. Three or four at least, without fail. Eventually, just stomping them out wasn’t enough. He spent every mobile moment in his apartment swatting at those puss-filled abominations of god, and one day, he just snapped. It wasn’t the public kind of snap that the whole rest of the world gets to see - it was the quiet kind of snap, that occurs deep in the mind of a person pushed beyond the limits of personal tolerance. It was the kind of snap that wanted revenge. Just bugs? Fuck you. They were more than just bugs to Dave. He found himself thinking about those creepy crawlers throughout the day - at work, in bed, in the car. What was that!? It was a question he constantly asked himself. After killing so many of those bastards, every slight tingle he felt on his skin was met with a flinch and a reflexive slap. It didn’t matter where he was. He was mortified at the idea of carrying one of those nasty cockroaches into work. Imagine giving a presentation and a fucking cockroach crawls right across your shirt. Can you even begin to imagine the things people would say about you? No, they were more than just bugs. Those things were the fucking enemy to Dave. And when he silently snapped, he tried to send the message loud and clear. It was a flipping of the script that the cockroaches didn’t see coming. Instead of viewing them as a nuisance, Dave began to view the crawling infestation as a matter of sport. No longer would he be resigned to simply stomping and wiping away - that was too good for them, Dave thought. His favorite game to play was to see how long he could keep a cockroach alive while inflicting trauma after trauma to its disgusting body. He used pins to immobilize his victims, one through the abdomen and into a square piece of cardboard was all it took, then they were his. Sometimes he used a lighter to burn off the feet and antennae. Sometimes he poured boiling water over them. Sometimes he used tweezers to slowly rip the cockroach to shreds, literally disassembling a living cockroach piece by piece. Especially nasty was Dave’s habit of leaving the gooey mess of his cockroach victims pinned to the cardboard where the torture games took place, an exhibition of his power that was made for all the other cockroaches to see. “A message to all your friends”, he would say to himself. Did they ever really get the message? Probably not, because Dave never had any shortage of cockroaches to fuck around with. Did they ever even feel any of the pain that Dave inflicted? I’m sure they felt something, but the level of pain experienced by his insect victims was unimportant to Dave. All that mattered to Dave was that Dave made Dave feel better. And that was how Dave lived his life when he was at home, and he was at home more and more after discovering his new favorite “sport”. And then, one day, Dave died. Just up and keeled over from a sudden burst of something or other - it doesn’t really matter. What does matter is that Dave learned a huge lesson in Karma when he took his stroll into the great white light. Apparently, Dave discovered, he was from a world where the hurt you inflict on other living creatures is in turn inflicted on you in kind, through a series of spirit reincarnations. His first post-death existence was as a puss filled cockroach in some dingy city apartment. Although he could remember his former life as “Dave”, his grip on those memories from that previous life became slippery, the way the details of a dream escape from your mind slowly upon waking, until all you can remember are quick flashes of dream memories, but not much else. Cockroach Dave knew something wasn’t right almost immediately, exactly what he couldn’t quite put his finger on, until he went to wipe his forehead in frustration. Where was once his forehead was something boney and protruding. There were two of them. And the hand he raised to rub his forehead was also no longer a hand, but a long, wiry, hairy limb of a puss filled cockroach. A no good, disgusting little rat bastard cockroach. Then black. That death was a simple stomp. Fortunately, the stompings ended pretty quickly and inflicted little more than a pressure that vanished faster than the pain could register in his cockroach brain. He inflicted many a stomping on his first initial cockroach victims, and he was inflicted with an equal number of deaths by stomping. Each one at the foot of a different person. Just as his treatment of his cockroach victims evolved, so too did the deaths that he would have to experience as a cockroach for himself. The deaths were no longer quick and painless, but slow and drawn out. He felt pain, in the area of his abdomen, as he was pinned to a piece of cardboard, before his cockroach body was dismantled piece by piece, by a cockroach hating lunatic. Perhaps the most cruel of his existences was as a cockroach trapped beneath a glass on a kitchen counter. Alice was a twenty something up and comer in the business world who didn’t take shit from anyone, especially not from a bunch of pesky cockroaches. For the amount of cash she was paying to her landlord every month, cockroaches were the last thing she expected to see. The mere sight of a cockroach enraged Alice, to the point where she couldn’t just stomp on a cockroach and wipe it away, she had to send a message to each and every cockroach who may ever dare to walk in her sight. Of course, pinning a cockroach to a piece of cardboard or burning the legs off a cockroach were beneath the stature of an accomplished woman like her. Alice’s sport was trapping two cockroaches under a glass on her kitchen counter, and then leaving the glass in place until one of the cockroaches resorted to cannibalism in a fit of hunger, with the stronger of the two overpowering the weaker, and then devouring the weaker piece by piece. The survivor, after his cannibalistic feast, was then crushed to death by Alice, wiped up, and flushed. Unless Alice was lucky enough to find another cockroach. In which case, the game went on. When Alice trapped Cockroach Dave with another cockroach beneath a glass on the kitchen counter, it was the other cockroach that proved to be the stronger, or perhaps just the hungrier, of the two, and Cockroach Dave was slowly eaten by one of his own puss filled kind. Worst of all was that Cockroach Dave was immediately overpowered, but not immediately killed. He got to experience several agonizing minutes of feeling the teeth and pincers of another cockroach tear into his own insect flesh, ripping his body open, and slurping up the goo that was his insides. When Alice arrived home to see what the other cockroach had done to Cockroach Dave, she smiled to herself, and unable to find another cockroach to introduce into the tiny glass prison, she crushed the winner to death beneath a thick wad of paper towels. Human Dave had only ever done that once - pitting two cockroaches against eachother in a cannibalistic deathmatch - so he only had to experience that kind of death one time. As for Alice, well Cockroach Deathmatch is her favorite little game, and she plays it almost daily, sometimes even twice in the same day. When her time comes, she too will have to experience every death that she inflicted on the cockroaches that she hated so much. Like it or not, even a puss filled creepy crawly is a living creature, and in a world where pain inflicted is pain returned, the piper is always paid. Ad:
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